


The Little Boy Lost - Innocence

by GrilledTandooriSmoke



Series: The Ghost of Abel [1]
Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Gen, V is Not Part of Vergil, but that's pretty standard when it comes to V, no beta we die like men, one might say V becomes his own person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-02-23 02:15:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23070733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrilledTandooriSmoke/pseuds/GrilledTandooriSmoke
Summary: “The mire was deep, & the child did weep,“And away the vapour flew.”He’s a mess of half baked memories and emotions with no idea who he really is. Combine that with a demon bird, demon cat, and demon golem, he’s still a mess of half baked memories and emotions with no idea who he really is. But there’s a pressure underneath his skin that needs to be let out and there’s only one person to return it to.Or: V is his own person and this is my take on it.
Series: The Ghost of Abel [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1658035
Comments: 17
Kudos: 52





	1. The Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I asked my dad if he had the complete writings of William Blake and this is how I’m using it. Enjoy!

_Hellfire. Smoke. Running. Panting. Breathing. In. Out. Mother, brother, the manor. Demons? Father. Where is Father? He yells for Mother. The flames lick at the roof, the walls, the ground. He yells for his brother. Spending time outside, what a foolish decision. His family. How is he supposed to help his family? Demons. A woman's scream. The fire imprints itself under his eyelids. Whenever they close, he sees the ferocious crimson and orange._

_"V-! V-!"_

_An overwhelming presence. A man—no—a devil stands above him. His heart trembles terribly in his chest. This feeling. This emotion. His breath quickens, shortens. There is no air. There is not enough air._

_"V-!"_

He shoots upward with a gasp. The last dregs of his dream are slow to leave him. The content is quick to flee from his memory but the emotion remains. Sweat drips down his forehead. He takes note of the wood floor beneath him, the cool air around him, the clothes over his body, as his breathing evens out. He runs a hand through his hair.

White hair. Had it always been white?

A pounding makes its way through his head and he tries to gently lay it in his hands. Teeth grit, he rides his hammering headache through until it becomes nothing more than a pulse. Smaller but still big enough to be a nuisance.

Slowly, he lets himself stand. His knees are unsteady, so he leans on the nearest table in this… house? No, he thinks, glancing over his surroundings. It's more like a shed. But why? Why a shed?

There are well worn books on shelves, plants tucked away in a few places, there's sunset light coming from two windows, and the smell of fresh ink in the air. Looking down at the hand keeping his balance on the table, he spies a jar of overturned ink. A piece of paper rests underneath a large spill. Whatever might have been written there is completely ineligible now.

 _A spell,_ he wants to say, but how does he know that?

Next to the ruined sheet is an open book, thankfully safe from any wreckage. There are symbols and words in what seems to be another language that feels like it should be familiar and yet it's not. He takes a step closer, knees still a bit unsteady, and barley notices the knocked down wooden chair next to him. Using his free hand, he turns a page from the book and finds a diagram. It's still written in something he can't decipher. Frustration bubbles in his stomach because it _feels_ like he should be able to.

But why does it feel like he should be able to? He's in a shed, but where is he? Whose books are these? Whose shed is this? Why is he here? Who is he?

_Who is he?_

He doesn't know.

He's searching through whatever memories he has and _there are none_. No memories, no idea who he is, but why? Why, why, why?

A hand goes up to his forehead again. The pain is still there, and like a drumbeat it steadily increases once more. With each question he thinks of asking himself, there is nothing but the dense pain of his own mind.

Just then, something large crashes through one of the front windows. Immediately, he goes for the closest thing resembling a weapon, and the thing starts laughing.

"Oh man," it warbles in a strange, almost distorted voice. "How the hell did you end up all the way over here? I had to fly miles to find you. _Miles!_ And don't get me started on the other guy, load'a bad news if you ask—"

"What are you," he rasps, shoving the pointed end of an ornate silver cane in front of the creature's face. He struggles not to cough. His throat is so dry.

Although fazed enough to have been interrupted, it takes on a casually annoyed tone. "What, never seen a talking bird before? I guess that makes sense, I am your—his discarded memories."

"You don't make sense," he mutters. "What memories?"

He doesn't dare get his hopes up. Waking up with no idea who he is and this creature shows up claiming to be a memory? It's too convenient. What sort of memory takes the form of a demonic bird?

It picks itself up, not caring the end of his cane is still pointed at it. "Are you telling me you don't know even after all of this? Huh?" its eyes—three irises in each eyeball—trail over his form, and really seem to take him in for the first time. "Wait, you’re not—you really don't know? Oh no, oh no no no no no, this isn't good."

He scoffs. He should be the one panicking, not this creature.

"When Vergil cut us away with the Yamato, he really didn't leave any room for you to spare! Jeeze, and I thought I had it rough!" almost recognizing he can't follow, it cocks its head towards him. "Humans aren't meant to have more than one soul and what little demonic energy you seem to have is trying to compensate. Kid, your body is basically paper."

It twirls with a flap of its wings so that it flies in place. A flair for the dramatic, this one. "That's where I come in! See, remember that bit about me saying memories? He cut away everything he deemed unnecessary including his nightmares. And a dream… isn't a dream if no one's seeing them. So without a host, _I'm_ gonna disappear. I need _you_ to be my host and make a contract with me."

He lowers his cane and grimaces. The creature goes to start again, but he raises a hand. "...This Vergil cast aside his nightmares and his soul, which rests in me. Is that correct?"

"Nice to know we're on the same page!"

He closes his eyes, taking a moment to consider his options. "...Take me there."

“Come again?” it asks nervously.

“Take me from whence you came and I might consider your proposal.”

The creature leans in close to his face and squawks indignantly. “Hey, this isn’t some one-sided deal! If you don’t want your body to crumble under the pressure, you need to return Vergil’s humanity to him. But with him all jacked up on devil juice, he’s not gonna take it! Not without a fight!”

A foreboding sense of déjà vu flashes across his mind with a quick sting. It’s _him_. The devil above him. His heart threatens to—

“Are you even listening?!” it yells, feathers ruffling. “You have to defeat him, but with the way you are right now? The chances are less than impossible! So you see, either we work together, or we’re both dead!”

How is he supposed to believe this creature in the first place? Is any of this even real? He clenches his jaw, the grip on his cane grows tighter. “I couldn’t care less if you need a host or not. I need answers. If I’m not satisfied with the answers I get, you can forget your contract.”

“Hey, I'm not some two bit demon looking to eat your heart in exchange for a host! That's not how this shit goes!”

A pounding at the door interrupts their squabble, and they both look over.

“Were you expecting company?”

“For me to know that, I would need to remember,” he replies sardonically.

The pounding grows louder and louder until the door crashes down. At the doorway is an Empusa (a lesser demon similar to an ant, it feeds off humans and the nutrients from the Qliphoth. He grips the bridge of his nose. How does he know this?). The demon looks at him, a hunger clear in its beady eyes. He throws out a hand, expecting something to happen, and is confused when nothing does.

The nightmare noticing, goes to action. “Say you don’t need me? Then I’ll just have to show you what you’re missing!” with a cackle, it spreads out its wings and releases a single bolt of concentrated lightning. The charred Empusa collapses. "Well?" it jeers, "how do you like your demons? I'm a well done kinda guy myself."

He covers his nose. Roasted demon is not a good smell. "You couldn't have done it outside?"

"Oh, I'm sorry princess!" it says mockingly. "I didn't realize it hurt your delicate little nose! Save his life and all he does is complain… Sheesh, what kinda kid did I get stuck with?!"

He elects to ignore it, instead focusing on the Empusa corpse. "How do you suppose it got here?" he asks.

"I gotta spell out everything…" it grumbles, "he has the Yamato. That thing can open portals like it's nobody's business. Doesn't take much else to figure it out, does it? Although this thing got here pretty quick. I wouldn't be surprised if the entire city got demonized at this rate. So," it swings its head towards him, radiating a smug aura, "still don't need me?"

Loath as he is to admit it, this demon seems useful enough as protection. That doesn't mean he trusts it. He still fully intends on making it take him where it appeared from and make a final decision from there. He's not going to be an idiot about this.

He's about to say as much when he notices the supposed corpse raising itself. He gestures to it with a raised brow and the demon sputters.

"The hell?! Why isn't it dead?!" with such little space to fight in this shed, it thankfully takes a start and rams itself into the Empusa, pushing both of them outside a generous amount.

He's quick to follow. The demon flies high in the sky and curls its wings for a brief moment then lets loose a larger blast of lighting. The Empusa crumples once more but he's not sure for how long it will last.

"Finish it off!" the demon yells, losing its… plumage?

Him? He glances at the cane in his hand, feeling its weight, and finds himself instinctively throwing it. He almost cows, he's a fool, when he feels himself _move_. In a moment, he's caught his cane, feeling it slide through his palm and running it through the Empusa's body. He barely has time to process what he just did. His arms shake with the amount of strength he's using and his breathing becomes labored. Gracefully, the Empusa goes limp on his cane. He takes that as a sign he can stop.

Blood splatters in his direction the moment he pulls his cane free. He grimaces. Disgusting.

He looks over just in time to see the demon make a crash landing, cracks in the ground form beneath it. He hobbles over to it, putting more weight on his cane and plops down next to it. What a pathetic sight they both must be, he thinks.

"Did… you get it?" its voice is weak, so different from all the lip it had been giving earlier. It’s almost sinking into the ground, a small puddle of black gradually growing around it.

He nods. “Are you melting?” he asks. He can’t have it go now, he thinks. He can’t lose his chance at answers.

“Yeah,” it confirms, “used up more demonic power than I thought. Between finding you and fighting that thing, I’m kinda surprised this didn’t happen sooner. Sorry, but window shopping ends here. Final sale ends in a few seconds, better run to registers while stock lasts…” with its last drop, it becomes a flat puddle of black ink. No backtalk, no other noise except the wind and the sway of the trees. The large presence that had been the demon almost makes this place seem entirely too quiet.

He runs a hand through his hair with a sigh. He's an idiot. “I suppose I had no choice in the first place. I still need to know who I am, and I can’t have you disappearing before I find out… Looks like I will need you after all.” Kneeling, he presses a hand into the puddle.

A strong gust of wind comes from the pair of ink wings on either side of him, flicking droplets onto his arms as they run up to his torso to create detailed and intricate tattoos. They sink into his skin, almost as if a blanket of pure black covers him. A presence makes space in his mind and its— _his_ —name is made known to him: Griffon.

With their contract established, Griffon springs up from his tattoos and twirls ribbons into the air until he's fully formed. He spreads out his wings and soars with joyous whoops and shouts until he perches back onto his host's outstretched arm.

"Phew! Gonna be honest, I didn't think you would take it. Glad you proved me wrong. We're in this together for the long haul, partner!" Griffon preens.

A contracted demon creates a mental link with its host. In this case, both of their channels are generously open, not hiding much from the other. And earlier, Griffon had been telling the truth. Two human souls in one body, hm? A quick glance at the back of his hand sees the smooth skin already forming tiny, minute cracks.

He hides a scowl in favour of a small smirk. "I suppose we are."

"Alright! Next stop, the manor, yeah? Just follow me!" Griffon flies ahead, but not too far that he's out of sight or range of protecting his host.

Memories not of his own leading him to their origin. He chuckles underneath his breath. The only thing he can do is walk forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“Father! father! where are you going ?  
>  “O do not walk so fast.  
> “Speak, father, speak to your little boy,  
> “Or else I shall be lost.” _
> 
> _The night was dark, no father was there;  
>  The child was wet with dew;  
> The mire was deep, & the child did weep,  
> And away the vapour flew. _
> 
> — The Little Boy Lost in William Blake’s Songs of Innocence
> 
> I really like the idea of ‘Father’ being Vergil here and the little boy lost is V, and he kinda is but not in the way that Vergil is V’s father (or is he???). You could also say this poem is being spoken from Vergil’s POV as his humanity enters V. Either way, there’s a boy, he’s lost, and it’s either Vergil’s humanity or it’s V, or it’s both! 
> 
> This was a fun way to practice present tense writing. Let me know what you think!


	2. The Little Vagabond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His new familiar is curious about him, and so asks and answers a few questions for him, which includes giving a name. Afterwards, a few new friends join their journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Griffon single handedly pushed this chapter, I love his sass sm, so fun to write.

"Wait, wait, wait, lemme get this straight: you don't know your own name?" Griffon asks, flying next to him as they make their way through these backroads. He hadn't been joking when he said he had been flying for miles.

"If I did, I probably would have told you by now," he says.

"Yeah, I would've been able to tell with our contract too. That noggin of yours is that empty, huh?"

He could only wish. A few moments after talking a small rest from the travel, flashes of memories assaulted his subconscious. He had seen through the eyes of a tortured man (Vergil?) being molded by a giant’s hands. Ironically enough, the giant had been about to give the man a new name when he abruptly woke. Unlike the dream he had when he first woke up, this nightmare didn’t want to leave him. He glances at Griffon out of the corner of his eyes. It was because of him, wasn’t it?

“Unfortunately so,” he answers. “I couldn’t tell you anything about who I am even if I wanted to.”

"Well," Griffon starts, flying backwards now, "you're no son of Sparda, that's for damn sure. And you're definitely not Vergil. Sorry to say kid, but you're too scrawny to be either."

 _Sparda_. That's another familiar name (one of the strongest demons from the Underworld, turned on Mundus, had children with a human woman, disappeared, _~~where did you go, Father?~~ _). All things considered, he thinks, being a son of Sparda sounds like much more trouble than its actual worth. He’s not particularly drawn to the idea of being the tossed out remains of one of his sons either, so he's not in the least bit disappointed.

"But here’s what I don’t get: if you aren't connected to Sparda, how'd a schmuck like you end up with a half-demon's human soul latching to you?"

Griffon looks at him like he has a clue—he's an amnesiac, he knows this, why is he at all inclined to ask—so he raises a brow through his glare.

"No need to get so sour!" Griffon exclaims. "I'm just spitballing here! You have to admit, it's weird right? There has to be _some_ sort of connection or something that makes you special. Figure that out and we've basically done 99% of the legwork understanding who you are."

He lifts his cane to his shoulder, tapping it a bit in consideration. "...How are you so sure it didn't just cling to the nearest demonic source?" He figures he isn't a normal human. Normal humans don't typically have spell books or instinctually attempt to cast spells. At least, he assumes so.

"Nah," Griffon easily dismisses, "that's not how this discarded soul business works. See, what should've happened is his soul would've had the demonic energy to construct its own separate body. In the case that doesn't happen—and it did—soul finds a host. And the host—AKA, you— _has_ to be compatible on a metaphysical level, doesn’t matter whether they’re demonic or not. It’s kinda like soulmates just without all the icky romance bullshit!"

He hums. The question just goes back to what makes him the best suited candidate. He clearly met all the metaphysical qualifications, now it's simply determining _what_ those qualifications are. It’s much too circular for his liking, however, it’s the only information they have.

“And how is it we are connected? Are you simply chasing after Vergil or could you have made a contract with anyone?”

“Oh, he’s asking the _big_ questions now!” Griffon slows to a stop, so he holds out his arm as a perch. His familiar preens his feathers for a moment then turns to tilt his head at him. “I'm gonna make it clear again, I _like_ surviving. Sure, I probably could’ve bagged any human, who wouldn’t want a badass demon familiar like me? But contracts are a consensual thing, and I figured we’d be in the same boat. Birds of the feather and all that shit, right?”

That response is… underwhelming. Pragmatic but underwhelming. It must show on his face because Griffon takes the moment to start flying again and cackles.

“What, you thought it was deeper than that? Anyone who'd have me as a soulmate would be damn lucky, but we're not like that kid."

"Yes, how unfortunate for me," he jokes, rolling his eyes.

Griffon squawks, his feathers rippling with static energy. "I'm a joy to be around and don't you forget it!"

"Evidently," he agrees. "And of Vergil?”

“Now he’s a party animal,” Griffon says sarcastically. “Thought you were him at first. Didn’t think he’d split himself so evenly his human soul would need a host, ya know? Not everyday it happens. But like I said, you're not Vergil. And hey! If that means I don't have to deal with his brand of jackass, all the better!"

There's something within himself that stirs indignantly at that comment. It's a strange feeling, knowing this isn't coming from him. Vergil, he assumes, and he can't help but chuckle at it in response. Griffon looks back at him in question, and he shakes his head.

"Someone's not happy about that answer," he says, running a hand through his hair.

"Yeah? Good! He should know it!" Griffon goads, "he's an asshole, but who isn't? Doing things without him is gonna be a change of pace. Don't know if that's a good thing or not just yet, but it's not like it's a high bar. In fact the bar's pretty low. Just be original, kid, and I'll be satisfied."

“One can only try,” he responds.

The ensuing silence as they continue their travel is pleasant. Griffon however, seems unnerved, and the only thing his familiar can seem to do is fill the space with more chatter. He doesn't begrudge this in the least. He doesn't let it show, although he's more than eager to learn about the situation.

"So, you still haven't thought of anything?" Griffon asks after a few moments.

He's thrown for a loop as Griffon asks this. "Of what?" the confusion is clear on his face, and Griffon looks at him like he didn't just lose his memories, but lost his general common sense too.

"Oh, I don't know, a name? Come on, you've gotta have some idea of what you wanna call yourself!"

He sighs. Of course they would get back into this. "I don't see the point in going by anything."

"Then think of it as a temporary thing! You don't have to love it, long as you got something to go by!"

His eyes narrow. "And why, pray tell, are you so fixated on this?"

"Listen, I've been calling you Not-Vergil, Kid, and Witching Hour for the entire time in my head and frankly, I'm getting tired of it. Normally I wouldn't have a problem with it, but considering the situation, it'd be a lot easier to have a name ya know!" Griffon exclaims with a flap of his wings.

He mouths _'Witching Hour'_ to himself, then quickly shakes his head and scowls. "I don't care what you call me. Come up with a name yourself if it bothers you so much."

Griffon's eyes go wide and takes on a dumbfounded expression, jaw trembling. "You want me to name you? Did you not just hear my list?! I know jackshit about human names! I'll just end up calling you Cane Guy the Cripple or some shit!"

He pulls a face at that. Griffon has a point, much as he'd like to ignore it. "Cain itself isn't a bad name, but I digress," he rubs at his forehead, trying to think of something.

There's still nothing in his mind, nothing he would prefer to be called, except… His thoughts keep going back to the dream he had when he first woke up. He barely remembers it anymore, but there was something still very clear. There had been a woman calling out to him, her voice had been filled with sorrow. A twinge of pain causes his eyebrows to scrunch together, though it's clear to him this woman isn't connected to Vergil.

He leans heavily on his cane for a moment and makes his decision.

"Just call me V."

* * *

V's next familiar runs into them sometime after Griffon tells him they're halfway to the manor.

It first happens when Griffon points out a demonic energy, a nightmare like him, somewhere in the area. The only thing he can see is a small shadow of a sitting cat, swishing its tail in the distance. As if sensing them, the cat's head turns around, and striking red eyes lock onto his. He's frozen on the spot, petrified. Elaborate patterns glow on its body, it fully turns around and _roars_.

In a flash, it dashes towards him, and though Griffon is quick to cover him, the _panther_ jumps over the both of them, and just dashes off. He clenches his fists, relieved nothing really happened, when he realizes his cane is missing.

V scowls. Useful familiar or not, that cane is the only thing he picked from the shed he woke in, and as far as he's concerned, the only connection he has right now to who he was.

He can’t just let it go, so they give chase.

They manage to corner the demon in between an alley and a dumpster. It doesn't notice them at first, laid down and relaxed, but it gnaws and licks at his cane, mouth at the handle, and a great paw covering the rest.

He frowns. How unhygienic.

"Kinda cute if you overlook the whole 'could skewer you in a second' thing, but I guess that's cats for ya," Griffon's comment must have been loud enough because the panther looks over and starts growling.

V gives Griffon a withering look and sighs. No choice but to move forward. And he does, much to Griffon's protests. The growling grows louder. V stops a few feet in front of it and squats, showing it his empty hands. Even if anything does happen, he still has Griffon.

“Hey hey, V, are you sure about this?” he asks, flitting about.

“It’s fine,” V responds, not turning his head from the demon in front of him. “Best to try and communicate, wouldn’t you agree?”

Tentatively, he presses a finger to the ground in front of his cane. While the panther still continues to growl, it hasn’t lashed out. He takes that as a good sign.

“I don’t know if you can understand me,” he starts, “but even you must be aware of the situation you’re currently in. Your master cast you out and without him, you will disappear. I have something of his I must deliver, but I can’t do it on my own. It’s a dangerous journey. I don’t want to die. And if you want to live,” he says, taking a breath, “then I _need_ you.”

The growling comes to a slow but gradual stop. The panther looks right at him and stares, the red of its eyes striking yet somehow softer than earlier, as if seeing him for himself. After what seems like hours, it picks up the cane in its mouth again, pads up to him and drops it. His eyes widen, heart puttering in his chest. He holds out his hand cautiously and amazingly finds himself rewarded. The panther chuffs almost affectionately and butts its head into it.

It doesn’t feel like fur, yet it’s incredibly soft like velvet. There's a warm feeling in his chest rising and it only grows bigger with each caress.

He feels a smile curling his lips. "So I take it you want to form a contract?" he scratches it behind an ear.

"That… was a lot easier than I thought it'd be," Griffon comments, perching on his shoulder.

V hums in acknowledgement, although pays little attention in favour of the demon before him. He's about to bring in his second hand to scratch below its chin, but it decides differently and instead jumps on him.

Griffon squawks, managing just in time to keep from being crushed under the combined weight of demon and human. V is completely pinned under it. He huffs, still scratching with one hand. The other is lightly tapping the side of the beast, hoping it understands his signal as well as it did his words.

Evidently, it doesn't. Not when it takes a good lick of half his face.

Griffon laughs.

* * *

With another nightmare to add to his collection and more tattoos binding them, V desperately wants to reach the manor already.

Gaining Shadow isn't a bad thing, quite the opposite. She's sure to be a powerful and useful familiar. But the nightmares? The memories that come along with them? The trauma that (re)surfaces the experiences he's never had and would never hope to have?

He _abhors_ it.

He doesn't want another nightmare.

But circumstances don't allow him that luxury.

He's only just coming to grips with his new nightmare. There's a hand clenched over his heart, like it would stop beating if it was anywhere else. How does someone cope in the face of a broken mind?

V doesn't know. Vergil didn't either. That's why he split himself in two in the first place.

It’s disgusting. He knows more about the parasitic human soul of a Son of Sparda than he does about himself. Something inside of him speaks of regret, only that too doesn’t come from him. More nonsense from emotions he isn’t the one feeling, except he is.

At the point they pass by a dilapidated church, Griffon tries to draw him away from it. He stops in front of it and considers the demonic energy emanating from it. There’s so much, he can taste it in the air. It would be so easy to ignore it. A part of him is saying he needs to go in. This one, he _needs_ its strength.

He doesn't want another nightmare.

But he doesn't have a say in it anymore.

Entering the church, he's forced to dodge a beam of concentrated power. His head whips around to its origin; a giant golem of stone and black oil. A tense grin overtakes his face. This one is remarkably dangerous. Words won't work on it, not like Shadow.

With another beam, Griffon and Shadow are stalemated almost immediately. His breathing grows heavier. He's alone. Nothing to protect him now. All it takes is one misstep, and he's swimming in the golem's black oil.

No light. Complete and utter darkness.

There's another man where he falls. In dark armour, pale cracking skin, dead red eyes. The man from his most recent nightmare. He rises in a stunted fashion, one limb moving at a time like he's a puppet on broken strings. He's still able to move quickly and dashes right for V, taking his wrists in a tight hold and _twists_ viciously. Something in the back of his mind tells him the pain isn't physical, he's alright, but _it hurts_.

V is tossed like a ragdoll, held up by his neck, choking under the pressure. A fist gets plunged into his stomach. He gasps for breath.

Something from the very core of his body is cut away and _pulled_. It's gaping, there's a hole in his very being. Bleeding. Crying. Hating.

 _Give it back!_ the man's mouth doesn't move, but he's screaming.

The man's scream is so hoarse, it's grating on the ears. His throat is raw, and he realizes it's because he’s screaming along with him. It echoes loudly, bounces around the corners of his head until the pitch grows higher, and higher, until the sound is distorted.

It isn't just them screaming, he notices. There's a child too.

The man covers V's face with his hand. V tries to kick, to claw away at the hand holding him up, but it's no use. He's not strong enough to escape.

The hand on his face presses onto his forehead, and it's like a ravine of pure information is compressed into what cracks they can fill in his brain. It's too much _too much toomuch!_

It barely registers he's been dropped, landing on his knees. There's no room to think.

As though with a breath, his vision goes dark.

Then, the last thing he hears is the child's cry.

* * *

"Hey, are you dead or what?"

Griffon’s beak pokes and brushes through his hair. His eyes slowly flit open through a curtain of black. Oil?

V slowly pushes himself up into a sitting position with a grunt, flicking off whatever liquid is on his arms in mild disgust. His head aches. What happened?

Everything suddenly comes crashing back to him. The golem, the nightmare, the _memories_ —

He brushes a hand through his hair anxiously, pulling it back in realization. Black. Why was his hair black?

"So, big thing agreed to a contract then, huh? Guess that means we're done here! Let's get going and finally get to the manor, whaddya say, V?"

He looks towards Griffon in question. The golem, _Nightmare_ , agreed to a contract? When? He winces, putting a hand to his forehead. He had passed out, he remembers that much.

And of remembering… He has more of Vergil's memories. ~~_Dante, the amulet, Mother's clone, Nelo Angelo._ ~~ Was his human soul lacking them when it was cut away?

Part of him doesn't care, but there's a growing need to _know_. Why does he have Vergil's memories? Where are his own? What is he?

Resignedly, all he can do is pick himself up and sigh. "Tell me what happened."

"Oh no, we are done here. Let's get _out_."

He doesn’t understand Griffon’s insistence. It doesn’t become clear why until something hits the ground hard enough for him to jump.

“Oh come on!” Griffon groans, “are you serious?! It’s just one thing after another!”

Another rumble causes the infrastructure in this already broken-down church to crumble more. A large chunk of stone above him becomes loose and it only narrowly misses him, heavy cracks forming underneath it. It can only be more or less dangerous outside, he thinks in annoyance.

Forced to go out, he can’t help but notice the mass of insects congregated outside the building. Griffon immediately lets his complaints be known, if the way his talons sinking into V's leather is any indication.

Shadow jumps forth from his skin and growls, eyes locked onto an enemy in the dark. Without an inch of subtlety, a giant spider flies overhead and lands on top of the church behind them, the building fully demolished under its massive weight.

Griffon's talons release from his shoulder and flies right beside him. "Phantom?" Shadow roars something fierce, but stays back at his command, hand out in front of her.

"Is there something I need to worry about?" he asks.

"Nah, don't think your body would be able to support four of us. This guy's an asshole anyway. Best to leave him outta this, V."

He raises a brow. Another nightmare then? He rests his cane on the ground, hand loosely gripping its handle, and lets his blank gaze take in the spider demon. Beady eyes gaze back, and its maw opens dangerously wide as though to begin speaking.

"You lot are familiar," it says, "is that one supposed to be our host?"

Griffon laughs. "Can't even recognize him, can you? Not that I blame you, kid's a bit more lanky than you last saw him. But if you wanted to make a contract, you're a bit too late. Let’s just say he’s had his fill of demon juice, yeah?” V scoffs. What's the point in pretending?

Phantom lumbers, the ink around its joints dripping onto the cobblestone. It’s desperate, V recognizes, running out of demonic energy? Its body quakes angrily, the steam from the lava rising from what drops it flicks.

“I refuse to die!” Phantom sweeps a limb and sends a large wave of cobble flying, ink and lava spraying along with it. V grabs onto Griffon’s leg which materializes in his grip, pulling him backwards. Shadow dashes after them.

“Fuck, straight to fighting, huh? Impulsive bastard… Alright,” Griffon quickly speaks, having hidden them behind a large stone, “what’re we thinking?”

“Pathetic weaklings!” Phantom shouts from behind, “don’t you dare hide from me!” Another wave of cobble flies just a few paces to their left, and several more expletives come forth from Phantom in the background.

“What a sad creature,” V mutters. There’s no point in gaining yet another nightmare. The less of these memories he has to deal with, the better. And if it means killing it off, then Vergil could blame himself later if they were so important to him. He’s not about to host another one. “It’s made its choice. If we let it go, it will only cause more trouble for us. We’ll take it down.”

"I hate this," Griffon grumbles, "but fine! If that's what you want!"

His familiars dash in opposite directions. Griffon soars through the sky and skillfully dodges Phantom's lava attacks, while Shadow makes use of the raised pillars of rock and jumps from each to get closer. They each manage to get some light attacks in, but nothing too devastating to effectively stalemate it.

V lightly trails the path Shadow carves. Thankfully, his familiars are distracting Phantom well enough it's not paying too much attention to him. As he runs to the next pillar, he catches a glimpse of Shadow striking at one of Phantom's legs, and a mixture of lava and ink spew from its injuries. Griffon summons several bolts of lighting and sends them off, each hitting their target.

Phantom groans in pain, but it's not enough.

It’s then he notices the blunt power coursing through his body, pushing against his skin, begging to be let out. The corner of V's mouth tilts up. His newest Nightmare, hm?

With a snap of his fingers, the ink from his hair lifts, and like a meteor, Nightmare comes crashing down. As soon as it emerges, lights and explosions go off in every other direction. As they progress, it gets increasingly hard to tell if they’re because of Nightmare or Phantom.

"Fuck yeah!" Griffon cheers.

V looks down at his cane. Best time to experiment, right? He tosses it towards Nightmare, and in a moment he's weightless. In another moment, he's hanging onto Nightmare's back, commanding it. It works. There's a light feeling deep in his stomach, he's almost giddy.

"Enjoy the taste of despair!" he exclaims with a laugh.

Like V's pulse, Nightmare jumps and devastatingly slams both of its arms down on Phantom's back. The spider demon crumples into the ground, and it's Shadow that skewers it in the final blow. The ink around Phantom's back dissipates and a pale light shines through.

"That's the core!" Griffon yells, flying back towards him. "You gotta finish the job, V!"

However slow, the ink tries to come back together. He can’t afford to lose anymore time here. Nightmare rears an arms back, and V jumps onto it experimentally, wind tousling his hair as he gets sent forward. With this much force behind him, V buries his cane deep into the center of the core.

Phantom’s body convulses and it shrieks. “To die here—!” V wrenches his cane out, and Phantom’s body slowly comes apart like ashes, dissolving in the moonlight.

He breathes a sigh of relief. If defeating a spider demon already low on demonic energy is a challenge, how much of a challenge would Vergil be? Settled on Nightmare’s back, V jumps down sluggishly, almost stumbling. He presses his weight against his cane to help his balance. His legs feel like they can barely hold him.

“Hey, you okay V?” Griffon hovers around him. Shadow pads up not too far behind.

He raises a hand to say he's fine. Only, he takes in air—too much air—and ends up coughing. And coughing. He covers his mouth, lungs rattling inside his rib cage, breathing stuttered. He can hardly breathe. Why does he feel so weak?

He rests his palm against Nightmare, and Shadow presses her body against his legs to hold him up. That bout of strength he felt earlier, where did it go?

 _Ah,_ he realizes. V quickly dismisses Nightmare, the black of its ink returning to his hair. Mercifully, he can breathe again, labored though it is.

 _Can't keep it out for too long,_ he thinks with a scowl. The strength in his limbs have returned, yet his hands can't stop shaking. It’s infuriating. Was Nightmare being kept out thanks to his own demonic energy? Shadow curls around him and strategically places her head underneath one of his hands. He chuckles, conceding to her unspoken request. "I suppose I could be worse," he replies.

Griffon squawks almost indignantly. "Kid almost hacks up a lung as says he could be _worse._ Sure! Fine! Alright!" he sighs, unruffling his feathers. "Whatever. How's it feel to kill your first nightmare? Just don't go getting any funny ideas about offing the rest of us now." he says jokingly.

In truth, knowing Phantom is dead is oddly liberating and he doesn’t know why. It's hard to say whether that feeling comes from his own release of aggression, or from Vergil's relief. He’s not exactly happy or upset. If anything, he doesn’t know how he should feel.

Instead of expressing any of that, V shrugs. “Killing any of you on my own would be more troublesome than it’s worth. Guess you’re just stuck with me then.”

“Well isn’t that oddly sweet? Hear that, kitty? The kid likes us!” Griffon cackles.

“I never said that,” he grimaces when he feels something wet against his hand. He looks down. Shadow’s tongue. Again. Her innocent looking eyes do little to beguile him.

“Too bad! We’re stuck with you, and you’re stuck with us, and that’s just how it is!” Griffon says, as though he’s the one in charge.

V rolls his eyes, but he can’t help the tiny corner of his mouth lifting just a bit. And if Griffon accuses him of smiling? Well, he’s not about to confirm nor deny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Dear Mother, dear Mother, the Church is cold,  
>  But the Ale-house is healthy & pleasant & warm;  
> Besides I can tell where I am used well,  
> Such usage in heaven will never do well._
> 
> _But if at the Church they would give us some Ale,  
>  And a pleasant fire our souls to regale,  
> We’d sing and we’d pray all the live-long day,  
> Nor ever once wish from the Church to stray._
> 
> _Then the Parson might preach, & drink, & sing,  
> And we’d be as happy as birds in the spring;  
> And modest dame Lurch, who is always at Church,  
> Would not have bandy children, nor fasting, nor burch._  
>    
> _And God, like a father rejoicing to see  
>  His children as pleasant and happy as he,  
> Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the Barrel,  
> But kiss him, & give him both drink and apparel. _
> 
> — The Little Vagabond in William Blake’s Songs of Experience 
> 
> Me: this chapter won’t be too long! Just some reflective stuff and some dialogue!! It’ll probably be the same length as the last one!
> 
> Also me: all the dialogue!! And a thing with Nelo Angelo!!! aND PHANTOM!!!!
> 
> We’re mostly done with all the background stuff taking inspiration from the Visions of V manga! The next chapter _should_ be shorter. But after that, this first story in this series is done!! Then we’ll get into the main game stuff!
> 
> As for The Little Vagabond, I like to think all of Vergil’s nightmares are little vagabonds of their own. The same could be said for probably EVERY CHARACTER IN DMC5. But the child whose POV Blake’s writing from in this poem is comparing the cold and lonely church to a warm and friendly ale house, which at the time (circa 1789-1794) would have been considered a place of wrongdoing by the church. The child is essentially acknowledging his dislike of the church and putting an ale house on a pedestal, which is where their innocence and experience come from.
> 
> In relation to Vergil, V, and our favourite group of familiars, they’re certainly not innocent. But they also don’t have a place that they can call warm or home anymore like the ale house. Essentially, the world is their church; a cold and lonely place.
> 
> I could go into an entire essay relating the poems I’ve chosen for this series to Devil May Cry. This note wasn’t meant to be this long ;;
> 
> Aside from all that, I hope everyone is staying safe at the time of this chapter's release!
> 
> Lemme know what you think! Thanks for reading and have a great day!


	3. Earth's Answer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like he originally wanted to do, V finally reaches the origin of Vergil's nightmares. There, he learns a bit more and gains more answers than he thought he would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized when I was coming up with this; besides the moment where Vergil cut himself in two, V was never able to really visit the manor on his own ;;

There's a curious looking child in the corner of his eyes. He flits about every few seconds, running around in the grass as he laughs, carrying a wooden sword. Sometimes he pops around with a book in his small hands and he just reads, muttering verses underneath his breath as he walks alongside V. The child is never static, always doing something. Yet whenever V looks back, it's never the same thing as it was a moment before. 

There's something to be asked about _why_ the child follows him, and it certainly can't be for his attention. The child hasn't acknowledged V once since he started walking with him. But then again, neither has V. Griffon hasn't said anything either.

So for the most part, he ignores the child and keeps walking. But that becomes an increasingly difficult thing to do as the child returns in shorter and shorter intervals. It isn’t that this bothers him, but it really is quite inconvenient, not to mention strange.

However, it all culminates as he passes what he assumes is an old playground. It's a simple but effective place, he decides, looking at the monkey bars, slides, and swing set. Crisp winds and cedar trees, benches and sand, a few bright plastic toys scattered around. A playground is a playground. Although, the metal shows signs of rust and wear. Shouldn't a playground feel more lively than this? V lightly brushes the chains of one swing. Why does he feel so… melancholic?

A muffled keening sound catches his attention from behind him. The child sits hunched over on a spring horse rider in a small sand pit, yet doesn't move. His little chest shakes with swallowed cries.

V frowns. 

"I ju-ust wanted to read," the child hiccups, rubbing his eyes with his fists. 

Crying children are… unpleasant. Seeing as he's the only one around, V doesn't know how he feels about imposing this responsibility on himself. He doesn't know how to comfort a child, much less a crying one. Somehow still, his feet carry him forward, and he kneels in the sand. Hesitantly, he reaches out with a shaky hand, too late for any of his regretful(?) thoughts to make him reconsider now. As his fingers hover over the child's head, the child looks up—looking right through him—and gasps. A pounding in his chest, his head whips around and— 

"We're almost there. What're you waiting around for, V?" it's only Griffon behind him, he thinks with a sigh. What a pathetic reason to be scared. 

The natural thing would be to reassure the child of the same. But again, the child is no longer there. And the playground around him… As V stands back up nearly stumbling, he comes to the realization the playground he saw is not the playground he’s in. An entire chain is copper coloured with several rough layers of rust. One of the slides is sliced in half, nature and mold growing around and over it. And somehow, the horse spring rider itself is intact. How did he miss all of this?

“V?”

“I…” he pauses, staring where the child last sat. He grips his cane and shakes his head. “It’s nothing. Let’s keep going.”

While Griffon insists on something of a small break (out of concern not very well hidden as several insults and choice words), they press on regardless. And V's vision _shifts_ ever so often, deceiving him into believing the path he follows is brighter, less barren and dead than it actually is. Throughout this, the child doesn't return. He pushes two fingers into his forehead, wincing. More frustrating questions with more frustrating answers.

The grass is either green or brown, the sky is either blue or black, it's either the sun illuminating the day or the moon reflecting it at night. It cannot be both and yet it is. Schrodinger's sight, he thinks ironically. 

"Alright," Griffon says flapping his wings at the bottom of the path, "the manor's just up ahead." 

V's eyes follow the direction Griffon's beak points. The moment they take in the manor, his sight is _overloaded_ with flashes of images. The manor stands sad and dilapidated, roof and any possible support having been burned away, as though it's a miracle it even stands at all. But it's also a beacon of burning red in a cold and starless night, a sign of weakness and fragility. And yet, it's _home_ ; with a woman singing soft tunes and baking fresh treats, with a man's large and warm hand resting on his head, and with a brother wrestling a book out of his hands until he agrees to play.

These three distinct images flicker and overlap into one amalgamated piece. Regardless, V finally understands.

 _What is it you want to show me,_ he thinks beyond the flashing colours. _Are these your memories?_ he asks the stirring ball of pressure behind his ribcage. 

As if in answer, his erratic vision gradually fades, the layers slowly peeling away piece by piece, until the sad shadow of Vergil's childhood home remains. V hums. Somehow, he thought this place would have been bigger than it is. Sad and barren, indeed.

His feet unconsciously trail the path a smaller pair would have taken, stray memories brushing against his mind with soft hues and warmth. But none of it is real, he reminds himself.

The moment he reaches the doorway of the main entrance, there's a very distinct feeling of him intruding on something, like he shouldn't be here. A wrongness making him feel horribly out of place. He doesn’t belong here. It’s not his place to be. And yet, he’s already too terribly involved to back out. 

Somehow he can hear the rapid footsteps of children echoing in his ears, their joyful laughs and sharp cries following with the sharp clack wood. The echoes permeate up until he steps in front of a small living area, decorated with the remains of sofas, a table, and a stone fireplace.

It’s dark. There's hardly a roof to shelter this place anymore and there are holes in every which wall. The soft moonlight from behind him is hardly enough to illuminate the room, but V’s soft shadow falls against the edges of a worn portrait as he cranes his neck to take it in its entirety. A family. A mother, father, brother, and…

“Vergil,” he mutters with both hands resting on his cane, eyes tracing over the painting of a young boy in hopes of understanding just a little bit more. The boy’s eyes haunt him, as though the boy could have known what life he would lead and all the moments that would cause a stranger to enter what could only be the grave of his innocence. 

This place must have been loved, V thinks—no, _knows._ It was well loved, there's no way it couldn't have been. Not with this particular family. The taste of apple pie is on the tip of his tongue, intruding on his senses with such a gentle prod he scarcely notices at first. But that prod pulls ferociously at his chest and collapses somewhere in his stomach, not giving him an instant to process what little memories he's actually stumbled upon. The gentle warmth in this house, torn away and left children and mother in a blazing inferno. 

The longer he dwells on such thoughts, the tighter his grip grows on his cane’s handle. His knuckles are nearly white.

“Okay, even I felt that one,” Griffon grouses. “Wanna share your enlightening thoughts with the class, paper boy?”

“Don’t call me that," he sighs, running a hand through his hair apprehensively. "...we never should have come here." 

"Wh-?! But you were the one who was so dead-set on coming in the first place!”

"I'm _aware._ " V stresses, "but this was pointless. There isn't anything to learn here besides what we already know." 

The melancholy and second-hand guilt press against his ribs. If coming here meant experiencing a childhood tragedy, then he shouldn't have bothered. Nothing good would come from this. 

“Oh, and I bet you think we’re ready to take him on, huh?” Griffon huffs. “Just keep in mind, he’s not some half-baked demon. It’s not gonna be an easy fight.” 

V hums. He knows Griffon is right. The notion of Vergil’s devil being so simple of a challenge is ridiculous in and of itself. He gives the room a parting glance, but on the floor lay specks of dirt and blood. It’s no wonder he hadn’t noticed it before. It blends with the dark carpet and there isn’t much of a lightsource. He kneels in front of it.

“What’s this, Mr. ‘nothing to learn here?’” Griffon taunts, hopping on the floor next to him. “Thought we already knew everything we needed to know?”

“You won’t allow me any curiosity?”

“Not when I can shit on it, no.”

He rolls his eyes, turning back to the ground in front of him. The blood, though dry, is notably recent, and there’s a fair amount of it. 

That’s right, he scowls. Vergil had been here only hours earlier. His devil had probably done a fair bit of damage to the manor as well. If they too had arrived earlier, would they have run into him? He doesn’t want to entertain the thought. 

The bloodstains end only a few feet away from him in a way that seems much too clean, like something had been resting there and then moved. Something rounded perhaps. Further away from that point rests a brown, leather bound book, gold ornamentations on the covers and spine. 

He reaches for the book, coming to a stand and instinctively opens the back cover. In the top left corner of the inside is the name Vergil, scrawled in a way that a child would write. It's still there. There's a bittersweet feeling stirring in the small corner of his chest reserved for his tenant.

"Thinking of smacking demons with a book?" 

V eyes Griffon wryly, "I might."

He flips through a few pages, noting the art around the poems and traces the edges of the paper with his finger. A collection of William Blake poems, he recognizes, having seen vestiges of it earlier. It's certainly quality, amazing how it managed to avoid damage after all these years. 

Griffon shuffles a bit beside him to take a few peaks, so V tilts the book a bit in his direction and looks over just to make sure. But Griffon is balled up, looking at him curiously while the shuffling noise continues. 

Slowly, he turns his head and freezes.

There's a man. He's wheezing and he looks like he's just on the verge of collapsing. But he trudges forward, boot dragging against the floor until he stops, only inches in front of V. A scabbard in hand, the man unsheathes his sword, muttering a name under his breath as he does. Unceremoniously, he tosses the scabbard aside. Then, he ambles around, back turned to V.

V physically can't move. He wants to turn around, he doesn't want to witness this. But he's forced to watch with wide eyes, heart clambering to his throat as the man— _Vergil_ —plunges the Yamato into his chest.

_"...heavy chain, that does freeze my bones around—!"_

With pained groans, and one final push, Vergil falls to his knees, but not before _something_ comes from his body. Tiny wisp-like creatures try to form together like paper curling around a dome. But they don't come together smoothly, the lines where they connect clearly visible, like a puzzle struggling to connect the pieces. The dome falls apart, then seems to collect the pieces it needs to hold together, only to almost forcibly rocket past Vergil and out the door. 

An overwhelming presence fills the room. A giant weight is pressed against his entire body, so all encompassing he can’t even move a finger. His breath comes out a shuddering mess, he can hardly take in any air. He overestimated himself. He had thought he would at least have a chance. But this—he’s _nothing_ compared to this. 

_“...selfish ! vain ! Eternal bane ! That free Love with bondage bound,”_ he trails off, cold sweat running down the back of his neck. How could Vergil have gotten it so wrong? 

“-ou don’t look so good there, V.” 

Griffon’s voice shakes him out of whatever sick reverie he'd found himself in. V's eyes rest on Blake's illuminated manuscripts, still as a statue, but his eyes aren’t focused on the poem at all. _Another memory,_ he thinks, squeezing his eyes tight with a grimace. And this one had been unequivocally clear about what it wanted to show. 

“We’re not strong enough,” he bitterly mutters, trying to keep his heart from bursting. 

What was the point of collecting his familiars, _Vergil’s nightmares,_ if they didn’t give him the strength he needed? Was it all pointless? He can’t defeat Vergil. He’s a husk of a human being with no name to call his own, carrying the weight of a dead man walking and the man he could have been before, and the only thing holding him together is his own demonic energy. The same energy Vergil’s human soul is slowly leeching off of. 

He doesn’t hold a candle to him. Is that what Vergil’s memories wanted him to know? 

V snaps the book closed, pocketing it and comes to a stand, scowling at the ground. 

Except… 

“I told you it wouldn’t be easy,” Griffon sighs, flapping his wings to perch on his shoulder, “so what, you wanna just roll over and die? Need I remind you, you die, we die, and no one here wants that. Also might surprise you to know I'm younger than I look! And I don't fancy dying young!”

“None of us will die,” he says, gazing at the family portrait once more. A father, mother, and two children. “We still have a chance.” 

He turns, striding through the manor’s doors and doesn’t dare look back.

“Let’s go find Dante, shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Earth rais’d up her head_   
>  _From the darkness dread & drear. _   
>  _Her light fled,_   
>  _Stony dread !_   
>  _And her locks cover’d with grey despair._
> 
> _“Prison’d on wat’ry shore,_   
>  _“Starry Jealousy does keep my den :_   
>  _“Cold and hoar,_   
>  _“Weeping o’er,_   
>  _“I hear the Father of the ancient men._
> 
> _“Selfish father of men !_   
>  _“Cruel, jealous, selfish fear !_   
>  _“Can delight,_   
>  _“Chain’d in night,_   
>  _“The virgins of youth and morning bear?_
> 
> _“Does spring hide its joy_   
>  _“When buds and blossoms grow ?_   
>  _“Does the sower_   
>  _“Sow by night,_   
>  _“Or the plowman in darkness plow ?_
> 
> _“Break this heavy chain_   
>  _“That does freeze my bones around._   
>  _“Selfish ! vain !_   
>  _“Eternal bane !_   
>  _“That free Love with bondage bound.”_
> 
> — Earth’s Answer in William Blake’s Songs of Experience
> 
> Sooooo, the world's kinda gone to hell and back since I last posted. Regardless, I hope everyone is doing well considering the circumstances.
> 
> I legit did not know horse spring riders were called that. When I went to the playground we called that shit a horsey and that was that.
> 
> I find it fascinating how Vergil chose to recite a part of the last stanza of Earth's Answer before splitting himself in two. It's technically the first poem in Blake's Songs of Experience after the introduction, which is meant to be read before Earth's Answer. 
> 
> In the context of the poem, Earth is the one who is chained. She's fighting God, the Father of ancient men (characterized as being from the old testament), who is keeping her imprisoned after Adam and Eve ate the apple.
> 
> In the context of a human body, it follows with Christian philosophy (which Blake was) that the body itself is a prison for the soul. The body is a material entity, impure, and therefore can’t ever hope to attain divinity. That free Love represents the soul. The soul can attain divinity, but again, since it is imprisoned by the body, there’s no chance of that ever really happening.
> 
> So when Vergil said that specific line of the poem, it kinda set off alarm bells in my head. Or at least, that’s an interpretation to have!
> 
> Idk, does anyone like reading my ramblings on DMC and William Blake? I think this stuff is so much fun to analyze, tho I might be reading a bit too much into things :P
> 
> Let me know your thoughts, and keep an eye out for the next part in the story for this series!


End file.
